The Letter
by LadyKailitha
Summary: A confession gone wrong. A fight. John sent to war. A letter is his only recourse.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a little drabble I put up on my tumblr (same username) and my beta, old ping hai suggested I should post it here too. So thank her if you like it. Angsty as hell and I think the letter explains what happened clearly enough, but if you have questions, message me.**

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Dear Sherlock,

I really made a gigantic mess of things yesterday. Everything I said wasn't what I wanted to say at all. It all just seemed to go horribly wrong from the get-go, starting with that stupid sentence, "I'm leaving." Which is true. But not in the way you thought. What I should have said was, "the army is calling me up to train surgeons in the field." Because that is why I had to go. Not because you confessed your feelings for me.

Everyone thinks me brave. Standing in front of a menacing man asking about a man I hardly knew? Cake walk. ;) Pulling a wounded man out of the line of fire? Easy. Telling the man who means the world to me that I love him too? I ran. And kept running. It was while I was running that a black car pulled up along side of me. It was your brother, of course. I thought he was going to murder me for running out on you after your confession (which was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard) but instead it was far worse. He told me about my new job and how hard he tried to stop it. Especially in light of what you told me.

I would have explained further after that stupid, stupid sentence, but you went into your rant about how everyone leaves you, that it was only a matter of time. And I froze. My heart shattered in the echo of the sound of your own heart breaking. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. I was supposed to tell you how much you meant to me and then spend my last day in London in your arms. I tried to speak, but no words would form. And then you told me to go. To leave before you did something you regretted. So, I did. I didn't have the courage to say the words that would turn this around, to make things right.

You deserve to love, Sherlock, to find someone who loves you in return. I still mean that. I just wish instead of replying to your parting words of that you thought you had, "I know." that I had said "I love you." Because I do. I love you more than anyone. That includes Mary. I know I shouldn't say that about my dead wife, but it doesn't make it any less true.

I don't know what's going to happen to me. Or why the powers-that-be fought so hard to make me leave behind the only thing in the world that matters to me. Maybe they need you for something, something that if I was there I wouldn't allow. So take care, would you? Even if you can never forgive me.

And I apologize for the mass of people that have descended on you since I left. I texted everyone to look after you, now that I couldn't. And if a couple of well-meaning souls have said that you have to give me a second chance or pay this letter any attention, then they are wrong. I know that I am at fault in all of this and if I had only said at dinner, "I love you, too, you daft git," then I would know the taste of your lips and feel of your hands running though my hair. I would know the touch of your body pressing against mine.

But I lost that chance. All because I am a coward. Instead I spent my last night at the pub with Greg (that's Lestrade, you great berk) and he convinced me to write this letter.

I have to go. They are calling my flight now. I will hand this letter to Mycroft and hope that it gets to you instead of being conveniently lost among the cushions of his black sedan.

Forever yours, even to the ends of the earth,

John H. Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: By popular demand, Sherlock's response. But because his letter is more a note than an actual letter, there is more to this chapter than the first chapter.**

**Thanks to my beta, she's awesome!**

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Mycroft thought about losing the letter, of course. It would be so easy. But there was one thing he learned over the years: no matter how hard you try, you can't keep Sherlock Holmes from John Watson; not if you valued your life.

That was what he had tried to tell Lady Smallwood and the others, but they were sure that Sherlock could be better manipulated without the good doctor by his side. He chuckled at the thought of them trying to outwit his brother. Silly little goldfish, swimming around their bowl, convinced they ruled the ocean.

His black company car pulled up to Baker Street and he oozed out and onto the pavement, graceful as a swan. He knocked on the black door and waited, inspecting his nails.

Mrs Hudson answered, her face flushed. "Oh, Mycroft," she cried. "It's so good you've come. He's in a dreadful sulk. Won't eat or sleep. And I can't get John on the phone. Just this strange text to take care of Sherlock."

I patted her gently on the arm. "Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, I'll handle it."

"Oh, thank you, Mycroft. You are such a good brother."

Mycroft considered it an act of supreme will that he managed to wait to roll his eyes until her back was turned. He walked up to the first floor and merely strolled in as if he owned the place.

Sherlock started hurling abuses at him the minute the door opened. Mycroft just smiled. He sauntered up to the couch and pulled out the letter. He held it out to his brother.

Sherlock stared at it a moment before he took it and opened it. He scanned it first and then read it with deliberate care.

Sherlock looked up, his eyes wild, yet hopeful. "Is this true?"

"Every word."

"And the mission?" Sherlock asked.

"If you are half the master manipulator you claim to be, I have no doubt things will go your way. After all, you're holding all the cards."

Sherlock grinned. He dashed over to the table and pulled out a pen and piece of paper. He scribbled out a quick note and handed it to his brother. Mycroft read it and chuckled.

"To think, I've become a postman at my time of life."

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock growled.

"With pleasure, brother dear."

John stood outside a dusty tent trying not to wring his hands. Mail was due today and despite there having been nothing for him the past two weeks, he lived in hope that today would be different.

"Captain!" A voice called out. "Letter!"

John yanked it out of the young sergeant's hand and tore off to the tent to read it in private. It was short and very much like the man who wrote it.

"Dearest John,

You better come home alive, otherwise I will hunt you down to whatever afterlife you happen to prescribe to and drag you back myself.

Love,

Sherlock Holmes"

John pressed a hand to his lips as he fought back tears. "Oh, Sherlock." He stood up to try and find paper, but his tent was darkened by a tall figure. John gasped and ran to the figure.

Sherlock held his arms open to take in the flurry of a five-foot-six army doctor. "I've come to take you home," he murmured as he threw his arms around his love.

"Good." John lifted his head and kissed his detective.


End file.
